


Lock & Key

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Fugitive Steve Rogers, Insecurity, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Natasha ships you and Steve, Nomad Steve Rogers, On the Run, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War, envy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 16:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15889359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: There’s no denying that what Steve and Natasha share is a unique friendship born of life-and-death situations, scattered moments of quiet understanding, and, eventually, trust. She’s here to convince you that you, too, have your own place in his battle-worn heart, and it’s one that can’t easily be erased.





	Lock & Key

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I don’t ship Steve and Natasha, but I do find the bond they’ve developed over the course of the movies to be real and of great depth. I wanted to write something that somewhat addressed Natasha’s perspective on their friendship (at least, the way I see it) and how it might affect the reader. Just a heads-up: it’s mostly Nat & Reader interaction here. Nevertheless, hope you enjoy!

You’re on the third floor of a cheap hotel where the bedsheets smell stale and the beige walls are marked with fingerprints and staccato lines of graphite. Gazing out the window isn’t something you do often, but the way the light of the rapidly setting sun hits the room just right has you leaning next to the frame, the thin lace curtain in a delicate hold between your index and middle fingers.

You’re in another city far from home, and the people below go on about their lives, none the wiser to the true unfolding of events which forced the temporary inhabitants above to seek shelter. It makes you imagine all the countless stories from down below that you’re oblivious to.

You’re lost in thought when a pair you recognize steps into view. Steve has on a baseball cap, his hands dug into the pockets of his dark blue jacket, and Natasha’s black hoodie covers her newly blonde hair as she carries a crumpled brown paper bag. They walk the narrow cobbled street side by side with a certain ease, an air of familiarity that has you wanting to look away.

She nudges him, and you know she’s teasing him about something. Then they’re crossing the road and approaching the entrance of the building stories below, out of sight, and you imagine he doesn’t hold the door open for her as they enter because she’s subtly, tactfully insisted before that he doesn’t have to do that every time.

You know you should move from your position by the window, but you’re still standing there when the door opens sometime later and Natasha enters. She pulls the hoodie away from her face and tosses you the small paper bag before stopping at the bed farthest from the window to rifle through the duffel bag laid on top.

“Got you the spicy one. Steve said you’d like it.”

The bag rustles as it slowly unravels in your hands.

“You already ate?” you ask.

“Ate on the way back. We already handed the others their food.” She pulls out a nude camisole and black cotton shorts, and you find you can’t move a muscle. “You’re awfully quiet. Something down there catch your eye?”

“No, uh, just taking in the view, I guess.”

Her keen eyes fix you in your spot when she straightens. “Gotta take time to appreciate the good things in life, I guess.”

Then she goes to the adjoining bathroom and closes the door behind her. The steady sound of running water that soon follows eases the underlying tension behind your ears.

Wanda and Vision are one floor up. Sam is a couple doors down, in a shared room with Steve. Steve, who knows what kind of food you like and is confident enough to have it brought back without consultation.

Which, in all honesty, doesn’t mean a damn thing, so why you find yourself hung up on it, you don’t know.

Later, when Natasha emerges from the bathroom, you’re lying in bed with your back to the room. It’s far too early to go to bed, and she knows you’re feigning sleep, but she moves lightly about the room anyway.

When the light goes off with a soft _click_ an hour later, you’re only half-asleep.

  


* * *

  


“Do you trust me?” Her question comes from nowhere.

“Hm?”

“Do you trust me?”

Natasha sits at the rickety kitchen table, where she worries the tea you’ve made her with lazy stirs. She’s got a contact with a safe house in Bratislava, and it’s where the group has found itself for the last four weeks and counting. It’s insulated, and old, and just what you need.

You take your time lifting the spoon from your mug to place it in the sink, your back to her. “What do I say to that, Nat? You know I do.”

“I don’t mean with your life.”

You steel your breath. “So, tell me what you mean, then.”

“As a friend. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Friends don’t lie to each other, right? Or at least, that’s what kids tell each other while they’re still young enough to believe in a perfect world, right?”

Your stomach twists.

“So, how ’bout you don’t lie to me.”

At first, you think it’s better to have this conversation from a distance where the edges of her razor-sharp perception can’t graze you too much, but in the end, it’s for naught. Slowly, you turn to face her, and with a conscious, calculated effort, you circle the island counter and take a seat perpendicular to her at the head of the table. Your mug lands on the scratched pine with a dull thud. The only source of light is the rusty chandelier that casts a warm glow directly above your heads.

“What do you think I’m lying about?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “It’s more an omission than anything else.”

“An omission?”

She pauses, perhaps to think of how to best word it. “You know I’m not really one to pry, not with these matters, at least. Well, not usually. But in this case, I think you should know where I stand. For your sake.”

“What are you talking about?” But you know exactly what she’s talking about.

She tilts her head like she sees right through you. “You and Steve, of course.”

“What—” You stop immediately. There’s no use pretending, not with her. Your eyes are on your tea when you end up folding like a paper swan, and you think maybe you’ve been wanting to talk about this all along. “I think I might be seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Bet he feels the same way.”

“What, that he’s seeing things that aren’t there or that he actually…” _Likes me._ You shake your head at how green you sound.

“Feels something for you?” She quirks her head and pretends to consider it. “Both.”

“So, we’re both idiots, then.”

“What I mean is that you both only think what you’re seeing isn’t there. But take it from an outsider: it’s there. It’s just as much there as we are here, at this table, in this city.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not exactly an outsider.”

She subtly arches a single brow.

“You and he have been friends for a while.”

Her eyes narrow in her quick study of you, but there’s also a hint of amusement there. “‘A while’ is relative. And yeah, we’re friends. Due to circumstance.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be friends with him if you didn’t have to be?”

“I’m saying I never would’ve had the choice if it weren’t for my joining S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place. Look, he and I are friends, but so are you, and yeah, we’ve kissed. So what? A kiss only means something if you want it to.”

Your heart immediately turns to lead, your chest a hollow pit where you’ve been carelessly carved out. Something inside you shrivels, even as a small voice berates you for bearing even the slightest ounce of surprise at the revelation. “You’ve kissed?”

“To avoid detection.”

“Sure, that’s what they always say, Romanoff.”

A socked foot nudges you under the table. “Shut up. If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he’d much rather have done it with you.”

Your pathetic pretense of lightheartedness fades as quickly as it came. You fiddle with your drink. “I think you’re the one who might be seeing things, Nat.”

She averts her gaze to her mug, where she taps her fingers, a gentle rhythm, light and staggered. “He looks at you a lot, you know, when you’re not looking. It’d almost be funny if it weren’t for the fact that it’s almost…sad.” Her voice softens, her expression turning pensive. “I’ve gotten to know Steve pretty well, and—well, if he doesn’t deserve that whole white picket fence deal, the 2.5 kids, I don’t know who does.”

“I think he’ll tell you his priorities have changed.”

“Yeah, he’ll say that. But that white picket fence and 2.5 kids might just come in another form for him nowadays.”

She considers something before a tiny huff of laughter escapes through her nose. “You know, I used to always badger him about finding a date. Everyone gets lonely, you know? Even when you don’t factor in the whole being frozen for seventy years and waking up to a new millennium thing. When I pictured who it was beside him, I had in mind it would be someone completely removed from this world. Someone who doesn’t remind him of the last time he fought for his life or the people who might want him six feet under. A nice chef or something, or a musician. But then I noticed there were more than a few folks at S.H.I.E.L.D. who were taken with him, to say the least, and I figured, what the hell? Doesn’t really matter what a person does or doesn’t do at the end of the day. So I encouraged him.” She pauses. “Then you came along.”

Her eyes come up to meet yours, and in them is a steadiness, an unspoken assurance you’re not sure what to make of.

“It’s understandable he’s afraid,” she says, nodding softly. “He’s been through a lot. But if there’s anything we’ve taken away from all—this—” She gives a weary sigh. “—isn’t it that every little bit counts? That if there’s even the slightest chance to be happy, we should take it?”

“Or that nothing actually matters at all and we’re all just fooling ourselves.”

“Well, then, what’re you even in this business for?” She smirks, and she knows she’s got you there.

“What about you?” you say.

“What about me?”

“Do you think there’s a chance for you to be happy?”

She looks away, and her stare is a thousand yards long. “I don’t know. Maybe one day. If the fates will allow,” she says, but both of you know she puts no stock in such a thing.

“You know, that wasn’t his first kiss since 1945, our little kiss,” she continues. You feel the dip between your brows forming. “Or so he says. Makes you wonder who else he’s been locking lips with, huh? Guess he’s not totally hopeless, after all.”

The sensation you feel is stronger than a sinking heart—it’s a piece of you that’s ripped away without warning. And it pains you that you have absolutely no right to feel it.

“This is the first of something remotely close to home I’ve felt in a long time, you know,” she goes on. “Maybe ever. The team, I mean. Even before—before all this. I used to carry on, content in my anonymity, resigned to being a ghost. Never really belonging anywhere, never expecting to. So when someone like Steve manages to worm his way into your life…well, it’s not hard to form some sort of attachment, is all I’m saying. I’m not heartless.”

She supplies you with a half-smirk meant to bring a small dose of levity to the room, but you find it difficult to return the gesture. Your attention is fixed on a cluster of scratches on the wood down below and distantly, you wonder if someone once played tic-tac-toe on the table’s surface.

“You two would make sense, though. I suppose,” you say, deep enough in thought that you can almost pretend the acute ache you feel isn’t there. “You’d certainly look the part, that’s for sure.” 

With a near snort, she has to fight to keep her mouth from twisting into a sly grin. “Me and Rogers? Yeah, no. He’s got a face that can break hearts, no doubt about that—I’m not blind—but he’s not exactly my type.”

“What’s your type?”

This time, it’s not a show she puts on as she considers it. “I don’t know. The kind that’s bound to give me a headache, apparently.”

You don’t know what to offer in return, so she continues.

“Look, what I’m saying with all this is—whatever form of happiness it is Steve’s looking for nowadays, whether he knows it or not—I think he could find it with you. I see how he looks at you. And I see you look at him. He never really needs to talk much when he’s around you, not when he doesn’t need to. He just knows you’re there, I think. Counts on it. And I think you both recognize something in the other, something I’ll tell you from my own experience is pretty hard to come by. Now, what kind of friend would I be if I stood in the way of all that?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, straining with the effort to do so. When you take a sip of your tea, it’s still warm. A hand comes to rest on your forearm.

“Don’t worry about me and Steve,” Natasha says. “Don’t worry about anyone else. Just give it a shot. Let him know. He’s already halfway to being yours.”

You shake your head as the prickling at the back of your nose appears and your vision becomes just the slightest bit blurrier. Your voice comes out soft. “Sharon.”

She leans back in her seat. “Well. I normally don’t condone going after a taken man. But he’s not really taken, is he? He’s just…searching, I think. Besides, this past year or so’s been hard on everyone. It can be easy for things to fall apart, you know? Especially if they were never that strong to begin with.”

Steve and Sharon. Steve and Natasha. In that kind of company, what right do you have to even entertain the notion of Steve and _you_?

You bite the inside of your cheek, resigned. “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“The only way to know is to talk to him.”

You shake your head. “I can’t risk it.”

“We don’t know how this all ends. If we’ll all still be together if—when—this whole thing plays out.”

That foreboding sense of the unknown is back, putting pressure on your skull and hollowing out your stomach. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

“To the world at large? I don’t know. To us? I don’t know. But we can’t be on the run forever.”

She takes a slow sip of her tea, and her eyes flicker to a spot past your shoulder, where they linger a beat too long for it to be nothing. You follow her line of sight, and leaning against the arch that leads into the kitchen is Steve, half-bathed in shadow. He’s in a white t-shirt and gray pajama pants, feet bare, grown-out hair lightly tousled, and eyes trained right on you.

“Oh—Steve—” you stammer and twist this way and that in an awkward shuffle of indecision.

“Just came down for a drink.” He eases off the arch and steps farther into the kitchen.

“Well, I’m callin’ it a night. Thanks for the tea.” Natasha rises from her seat, mug in hand. Mischief dances in her eyes. As she passes Steve, she gives him a knowing look, and there’s no way you can miss that. “Night, Rogers.”

Then she’s gone. You’re still twisted in your seat as you watch her leave, silently begging her to stay, not to leave you alone with him, but Steve’s attention rests solely on you. He steps closer and your heart threatens to pound its way out of your chest.

“Hi,” he says.

You have no way of knowing how long he stood there, how long Natasha knew, and you don’t have it in you to ask. You chance to look up at him, afraid of what you’ll find in those cerulean eyes, those that are capable of being both fierce and gentle, but it’s the latter you see in them this quiet night.

He lifts one side of his mouth in a soft smile. “Isn’t this the part where you say ‘hi’ back?”

“Hi.”

The other half of his mouth lifts at your breathy voice. Then his face falls as his eyes roam subtly over your features and you immediately recognize his expression for what it is. It’s the same one of plaguing uncertainty you know has befallen your own countenance far too often. He watches as you stand and your thumbs itch to sweep over those long lashes like they’d have any sort of right to, and you imagine he’d let his eyes fall shut in quiet anticipation.

The air is still. The only sound is from the crickets chirping on the other side of the stucco walls. Your heart is in your throat when, finally, your hand moves of its own volition to seek out his. A tentative move. You’re rewarded with the firm pressure of his fingers around yours, the caress over the back of your hand, and it sets you aflame. His hand is large, warm, a little callused. Safe.

He looks past your shoulder and spies the cup of tea sitting on the table. His lips don’t move an inch, but the smile you read on his face is dazzling in its clarity.

“Mind if I join?”


End file.
